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How do you make decisions of forever in slip-moments? When words are so untrustable. If he’d left notes, too, on slips of paper in pillow cases, in make-up cases, on your shelf behind the clock, you’d also question his authenticity like your friend’s Uggs she bought from an online shop for less than half the price.

How do you choose the right thing when everyone weighs and already your skin buckles with the weight of rigorous schedule?

Like this:

I want to hate like a magazine misquote. The ingrained, un-heal-able stitch hate, there’s always a reminder of. I thought that’s what this was.

Lily Allen can’t win: offending somebody somewhere whatever it is she says and for every person saying I have a sound mind, all see-through Heisenberg blue, ten tell me I don’t and I’m not and what the fuck am I actually thinking?

Total privilege of being understood. How much I’d pay for, biscuit packets. I’m glad you don’t roll cigarettes, though it’s better than licking envelopes. The gum’s not gluten-free, you know? And neither’s my shower gel.

Domestication’s the death of me for un-obvious reasons. Because looking at you like this, is, insert adjectives here. Shit, I think all of them.

There is no perfect point, only a cross-pathed mess of near grabs, almost hads and overs. We’ll see, late, we were a time waste, hoping for a moment to strike, a Biblical revelation, movie-like regeneration, collage scrap fitting an exact left space when, really, life’s a crapshoot, and we’ll be dead soon wishing we’d taken the other when we could’ve except, when you’re dead, there aren’t wishes any more or regrets and any statement of what there is which I could make would be an arrogant stamp, smug snatch at a concept I’m uncomfortable with. But, we should’ve kissed.

I kissed someone else. And any actual feeling which wasn’t a ploy was a willing casualty. And, the family you’re from, you better than anyone understand what compromise is: a daily occurrence, not a prison sentence because even they eventually end, mostly.

Months later, once you’ve fucked my friends and I, yours, when you’d think it too late to try you ask, “What if?” and the boyfriend box with your name on it which I loft-shoved, barely saved from setting light, changes status. Trinkets waning in and out of use.

I want you to win. Like every battle we all fought, like The Civil Wars say. Like Plato or whoever really said that. Wikipedia doesn’t know. And that’s like a newspaper failing, everybody getting zero on a test they prepared for.

The poem I wrote I called Aria, I called it all you, but your mum was tugging at my trenchcoat, the sleeves of my fleece, and I knew that she’d find it, research, decide if I was husband number two even though I wouldn’t be. How weird would that be? I’d be like your dad or something. That would warrant a LOL. Or lol? I’m older than you; I don’t know.

This is not indoctrination or a hostile takeover or those people knocking on your door asking if you have Jesus as you eat your cereal and they don’t know what they’re selling, really, because there are so many options in stores now, so many choices and you couldn’t pick out a car let alone religion, a husband.

Whatever I’m told I do the opposite and I always did and you’d think maturity would iron me like a pair of shrunk curtains but the foundation never came out so that’s a problem and it begs asking, why iron something stained anyway? That’s what we call a waste of energy, isn’t it?

You are Lucozade, steroids. Everything’s fine if no-one finds out I’m taking them, or if someone does, let’s hope they’re secret keepers, that they’re fucking good with a lie.

You make me lie better and what more could I want than that? What is there to hope for? We’ll take this to graves.

You remember the moment you made it, the decision that altered dynamics, and there’s nothing to regret, really, because stagnation is Season 8 of The Office – we’d be better off without it.

You never knew you were brazen or capable of it. You censor swear words as you say them, nod your head before meals for blessings that you were never due, but you do it anyway, because repetition is our only constant – hair drying, hair washing, verbal tics, obsessions with men you work with and men you’ve never met and women’s breasts and the way shirts cling or pop off them.

Once, you wanted to mould him to you, make an incision and resew, so you were pieces of a whole because your head told you that was the way things turned out, and you’d rather read the end first anyway, fast forward through filler to get you to the opportune point. But your head also said soulmates were palpable, hearts were more than a symbol and contained bright lights and messages and fortunes and fates.

You thought Bridget Jones was a real person, and you appreciated the intimacy of reading one woman’s diary.

It’s only now, widowed, you’re unpicking every decision, each note you wrote to Charlotte, whispered word to Ally, gift you gave John, morsel of scripture or science you believed, harboured, and you’re wondering whether you’re imaginary afterall because nothing’s had the structure it ought.

Like this:

At some point two men is too many men although it seems like a good idea to start: you should always have a redundancy.

Since you saw that Sex and the City episode you back all your files up but you also understand love is unexpected and cyclical and every person you say no to, send away, is due a do-over, and chances are available – like sold out Chanel on eBay. You’ve got to pay a little extra for it, give more of yourself you think you’ve not got, but if you’re serious about completing collections, can say you exhausted every inch and avenue when you’re dying or dead, it’s worth it.

The decision is simpler than you think. When someone calls you “family” you either feel it or don’t. And when Jack says it you picture Annie Hall, Bride Wars, imagine letting go, and realise it’s possible, and that it shouldn’t be, and your choice is made for you and it’s the right one and it’s the right one and it’s the right one and the right one is.

She married you, not the professional knight in shining armour, who does what you’d expect of him: swooping and saving, proposing on alternate knees when one gets tired, buying more than one meal a day for a woman. She married you but it’s not an important distinction. And it’s not a real marriage anyway, if there is such a thing, and it’s not a construct, tradition, imposed by men, invented by them, so they could conquer another thing, now that countries are given back and their sculptures are fought over and sent to their countries of origins and there are no real discoveries, especially as the ones about the universe are insumountable, to your mind, anyway.

There is no win in your head, no decision, action, that could make this divorce right, so it has the desired effect – that she’ll go on a date with you. She basically committed fraud, marrying you so you could scrounge the insurance she doesn’t need yet. Ask yourself, would many women go to the lengths she does to get you medical attention? And the list’s not long, if only she’s on it, then do whatever the fuck you can to stop her. Knights are fairy tales written by men, also.

Let’s create new histories, other stories, in which the unexpected happens, the unlikely is true.